The Third Leg
by Ason
Summary: This is my tribute to DeForest Kelley. Just a bunch of yelling and rambling, and a little language and gore.


*Author's note~ This is my tribute to DeForest Kelley.  I wrote it and preformed it in Forensics, with certain elements subtracted, of course.  This was written to be heard and not read, so the grammar is not the best.  Most of the dot dot dots mean a pause.  The intro doesn't really fit, but was actually my intro for class, so I included it.  Believe me, it is a lot easier to read than to say.  Try "Blobby bearded aliens" three times fast and you'll know what I mean.

The title and, in some ways, the idea were taken from Nesabj's theory in her story, The Sum of the Parts, about Kirk, Spock and McCoy being a three-legged milking stool, and the fact that if you take one leg from the stool, the whole thing collapses.  Thank you, Nesabj, for the inspiration!  Here goes:

This piece may contain material that might be considered slightly sick and demented.  Like something you would see on CSI, only worse because there are no pictures.  Just my words accompanied by the horribly gruesome images your mind conjures up because of your own demented sickness.  Rest assured, this is the least of your worries.  What you should be fretting about is the invasion of this planet by other-dimensional extra terrestrials looking suspiciously like you Great Aunt Ruth with a beard and whose very globular presence is resulting in the good boys and girls of the world spouting sick and demented things!  That's right, this piece is the unholy child born of blobby, bearded aliens and goody-two-shoes gone bad!  Merely a miniscule side effect of insomnia, but viewer discretion is advised.

"The Third Leg"

by Allison Chretien

Side note slash history lesson: "Bones" is a nickname used for doctors of the old west known as Sawbones or Bonecutters/Bonesetters.  This, however, does not take place in the old west.

No…wrong.  This is all wrong.  You can't…you're not supposed to be lying there.  You're not supposed to be dying!  You're not lying there, and I'm not sitting here.  It's supposed to be me in that bed, and you pacing the floor swearing and cursing me for making you put you back together again.  I CAN"T PUT YOU BACK TOGETHER!!!  I can't…I can only sit here…and watch.  Watch your life seep from that…mangled body…that…

I look back and the first thing I remember is that scream.  Your voice, so full of wisdom, ripped from your throat in agony…and blood.  Everywhere.  Pooled on the floor and smeared on the walls.  Oh god, I didn't know there was so much blood!  And it was all yours.  We found it…him, and there wasn't a scratch on him.  You saved yourself…he was drugged.  A sleeping mass of bloody fur in the middle of the floor.  And the blood was all yours.  Crimson everywhere.  Scarlet tinted my vision.  I couldn't bear the thought that that beast…that monster would live and you might die…might already be dead by his hands, his…claws!  In rage, I killed it, lying there, helpless on the floor, I killed it.  Point blank, cold murder, I killed it.  For you.  And you?  You were lying in an ocean of your own blood…not moving…not breathing.  I almost died at the sight of you…twisted…and broken…I almost died by for the hope that there might be life…might be…  But then Ben came out of surgery, his dark face ashen from the strain, ashen from the grief, the message he must share.  He shook his head and sank into a chair, covering his face with those big strong hands that had been working for hours to keep you alive…to keep you…with me…with us.  He said that you were on full life support…that he didn't know if there was anything left to save…that he was sorry.

Even now, I can't look at you.  Not you…your body, hooked up to machines…breathing for you, pumping for you…living, but not alive.  No, can't think like that.  Must be positive.  There are…always… possibilities.  And I can't go into that room…I had it sealed off.  The floor is clean, the walls are spotless, but I can't let go of the images of blood…the crimson landscape.  The blood and the screams and my mind shuts down, my thoughts go blank and I panic at the prospect of living without you.

Without you…I have to force the words out…force my heart to face the impossible…me…without you.  Without my support, my wisdom, my rock of reality in the swirling sea of fantasy…the raging storm of…me.  I need you.  I need…your rough touch, your crackling compassion, your…caring and kindness hidden beneath layers of stone and crust.  I need…the sapphire flame of angry challenge…the startling cornflower sympathy.  I need…I need you to live!  To fight!  To hold on with that iron will of yours the thread of hope Ben had provided you.  That determination that's pulled me from the jaws of death more times than I can count.  Determination to which I owe my very existence.  I owe you my life…you can't die.  You are the third leg of our stool…the added support to our trio…we need you, and I won't let you die.   It can't be any other way.  

We're gonna fight this together…survive this together…come out on top!  We can't let that monster win, can't satisfy his bloodlust with your death!  You'll see.  The holes will heal…the scars fade…the memories dissolve…forgotten.  And when you're ready, you'll go back to work, putting people back together…working miracles…saving lives.  And when you're ready, you'll come to me.  You'll bring the brandy, and I'll have the glasses.  You'll perch on my desk and I'll slump in my chair.  And when you're ready, we'll talk.  We'll look back on this day, this week, this…forever, and I'll cry for your pain…and you'll laugh at my desperate raging over your still form.  And we'll drink…and we'll laugh…and we'll talk…and we'll cry…

…And I'll wake up and find myself in bed, my boots on the floor beside me, the covers around my shoulders…a glass of water and two aspirin on the table for the inevitable hangover.  And I'll say a prayer of thanks that the good doctor…my friend…is alive.  Because…God help me, Bones…you will live.


End file.
